My mother said I should stay in the kitchen during the wedding photos—only until the “important guests” were gone. I didn’t mention that for the past year I had been

Ethan’s mom wants to “help” with planning. She’s talking about a joint society weekend. Like it’s a brand collaboration.

I stared at the text until my eyes went hot.

Daniel read it over my shoulder. “No,” he said simply.

The next day, my mother called, voice tentative. “Sophia,” she began, “I heard you’re thinking about something small.”

“Yes,” I said.

She hesitated. “The Wellingtons suggested… maybe the estate. It would be so beautiful. And secure.”

Secure. The word hit like an insult wearing a polite suit.

“I’m not getting married at the place where I was almost seated by the kitchen door,” I said, voice calm but final.

My mother went quiet. “Right,” she whispered. “Right. Of course.”

Clare called later, voice shaky with anger. “I told Ethan’s mom no,” she said. “She acted like I’d committed a crime.”

“How did Ethan react?” I asked.

“He backed me up,” Clare said, sounding surprised. “He actually said, ‘This isn’t about you, Mom.’”

A small smile tugged at my mouth. “That’s growth,” I said.

“It is,” Clare agreed, then sighed. “But she’s going to keep pushing.”

“Let her push,” I said. “We’re not moving.”